by Clare London
“Noooo!” both children wailed in tandem.
Cara jabbed her brother in the ribs. “We all know the parent gene bypassed you at birth, Uncle Simon, but please let my kids have their fun.”
“You want them picking up shit—?”
“Mummeee!”
“I mean rubbish,” he corrected swiftly, “from the pavement? Next they’ll be trying to eat it.”
Cara moved swiftly, snatching the mangled item from near her toddler’s mouth. “It is chocolate. Funny shape, though.”
“Bunny!”
“Bunneeeee!”
“Okay.” Cara looked at her sons fondly. “You know best.” She turned to Simon. “Where did it come from?”
“Fell out of a shopping bag. From a car. From an alien spaceship full of chocolate munching, brain-sucking monsters—”
“Mumeee!” Davey’s eyes were wide and Kit’s were screwed up ready to cry.
“For fucks sake,” Simon muttered under his breath. He examined the misshapen mess in Cara’s hand. Actually, he could see the rabbit shape now, but it didn’t look like it came from a shop. Did people actually hand make Easter eggs nowadays?
The emotional pain and resentment hit fast. Maybe he would have done that in his own bakery, if he still had one, that was. If he wasn’t all but destitute and sleeping on his sister and brother in law’s sofa, and his shitty ex hadn’t stripped out the business bank account to put everything on a horse in the Grand National that he’d insisted was a certainty but had actually fallen at the second—no wait! It was actually the first—fence.
He sighed and bit it all back. This was meant to be a casual stroll with the family, not another poor-me session. “Let me have it. I’ll get rid of it at the bakery.”
Cara’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going in?”
“I still have a key. I have to pack up the rest of my stuff.”
“Only if you feel up to it.” She put her hand on his arm. “You didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry, Simon.”
“Yeah. Me, fuc–me, too.”
“You can stay with us as long as you need, you know.”
“I’m not sure Christopher agrees with you. Bad enough coping with lively twins and a harrassed wife in a two bedroom flat without your hobo brother in law as well.”
She smiled. “You’re not a hobo.”
“But you are harrassed. I understand, Cara.” He hugged her briefly. Didn’t want to get chocolate all over her sweater, though there was a patch on her shoulder already that looked suspiciously like baby sick. With ketchup on the side. “I’m waiting to hear from both job and flat, so hopefully I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. He did have a couple of job applications out there—a hideous thought, returning to work for The Man in some kitchen or bar, but needs must until he scraped up capital again—and he also had the offer of another place to sleep. He’d probably be swapping one sofa for another, but since his mate Ethan had moved in with his boyfriend, there was space at Ethan’s old bedsit.
Simon knew Cara and Christopher had been knocked sideways at learning they were expecting twins. And the kids were… well, adorable of course, because he was a doting uncle, but they took up a hell of a lot of their parents’ time. He grinned widely at the two boys in the buggy, which seemed to alarm Kit for some reason. But Cara was right when she pointed out Simon didn’t love kids, like, as a breed. He couldn’t imagine having any of his own, constantly begging attention, needing full servicing 24/7, vomiting ketchup-coloured sick all over his shirt…
“Is it meant to be open?” Cara’s voice interrupted another of his plunges into depression.
“The bakery? No.” Simon frowned as he saw the front door of the shop cracked ajar. No one should be in there today. His partner Brett had taken his losing betting slip, plus whatever was in the till on that Saturday, and a selection of the best kitchen equipment, and vanished up to his parents’ house in Scotland. He changed his phone number, too. Simon had been left with the anguish of putting the bakery up for sale, using whatever savings he had to settle all the outstanding bills, and saying goodbye to this decade’s dreams and hopes.
“I’m taking the twins to an Easter Egg hunt today,” Cara said worriedly. “Maisie’s on duty at the community centre and I’m helping her set out the tables and chairs in the hall this morning, else I’d stay to check things out with you.”
“No, it’s okay, You and your bestie are needed there to keep those brutes—”
“Mummeee!”
How the fuck did children always pick the one contentious word out of a babble of adult speak? “To keep the little darlings in order. I’ll see you later.”
He’d spoken confidently but he couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous as he peeked around the front door of his bakery—no, ex-bakery—wondering if he’d see burglars. Though what the hell was left to take? Half-opened boxes of paper napkins and a spatula or two? The bloody light fittings?
A tall, well-built man, facing away from the door, was bent over the stripped sales counter as if reaching for something. He was wearing overalls, grey with patches of plaster dust, with one foot off the floor to balance himself.
Nice arse. Simon slapped himself internally. He wasn’t getting distracted with that sort of thing again, after Brett’s betrayal. He could smell new paint in the room, but underlying that, the painfully familiar aroma of coffee and baked goods. It was ingrained in his DNA.
“Who are you and what the fuck’s going on?” he snapped.
“Wha—?” The man jerked and his upper body tensed as if trying to keep himself steady. Then he lowered both legs to the floor and turned to stare at Simon. Dark hair, receding at his temples though he didn’t look older than thirty, a bristled chin. Wide mouth, nose bent maybe from playing sports, or maybe from falling over a kitchen counter when some lunatic barked at him suddenly from the doorway. Attractive, if angry face. Very angry face.
“There’s no need to be abusive, mate. And watch your language in front of kids.”
“What kids?” Simon went on the defence. Cara was surely already half way up the road toward the housing estate, and a typical journey with that monstrous buggy rivalled scaling the north face of Everest. She wasn’t on her way back any time soon. “They’ve gone—”
Then he saw the small person behind the large, angry one, peeking out from behind the tree trunk thighs. Seven years old, eight? Simon was no expert on kids, as Cara never ceased to tell him, like when he bought the two-year old nephews a book on cyber security in the modern banking system. This child had frizzy hair escaping an Alice band. What looked like paint down the front of her t-shirt and jeans. Two bright, suspicious eyes, now glaring at him.
The two angry faces had a similar look. Family. The very worst kind of united front.
“Uncle Trev is working,” she said with great self-importance. “You’re tesspissing.”
The guy winced. “That’s trespassing, Tiny.” He gave a small sigh. “Pop off into the back, will you?”
She never took her eyes off Simon but she wrinkled her nose as if giving the request some serious thought. “If you think you’ll be okay.”
Uncle Trev’s mouth twitched. “I’ll cope. Just give me a moment here.” And as the girl darted behind the counter and into the back room, he turned back to Simon. “Now, as for you—”
“No, wait.” Simon flung up a hand in appeasement. “Let me apologise, I shouldn’t have barged in like that. It’s just… this was my shop. My business. My life.” For God’s sake. “I’m still struggling to moderate the bitter old basta–person voice.”
The guy looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment. “That your stuff in the back room? The kitchen utensils? The old paperwork?”
“Yeah. I’ve come to pick it up. Then I’ll be out of your way.” He couldn’t help it—his gaze flickered hungrily over the shop. Where the trays of loaves used to be, the basket of cheese batons. The bread slicer. The cakes of the day…
&nbs
p; Uncle Trev cleared his throat. He was watching Simon very closely. “No rush. We’re not open for business yet. Just coming in early to look around, freshen up the paint on the back wall. Sort out what to change—”
Simon tensed.
“Or not.” The guy sounded really calm, really steady. Perhaps a bit wary.
Jesus. Simon hadn’t thought he’d feel like this. He wasn’t used to emotions at the moment apart from white-hot anger, and pain, and homicidal aggression—
“Sit,” said the guy, then a chair was behind Simon’s legs. He fell back onto it like his strings had been cut. “Better? Looked like you were going to pass out there.”
Simon didn’t do fainting spells, but his vision was still blurred.
“I’ll get you a tea,” the man said, still calm, still steady, but his hand now rested firmly on Simon’s shoulder. “A slice of cake will be good too. Tiny?”
Simon saw a swish of movement as the girl approached the chair. She peered at him. “Do you have any allergies?”
“Tiny, I don’t think he needs the hassl—”
“No,” Simon said weakly. “I don’t have allergies. I’m a baker.” Was.
He was ushered to the small table where he used to offer tastings and have coffee with sales reps. Uncle Trev moved surprisingly quickly into the back room and reappeared with two mugs of steaming tea in one large hand, plus a generous teapot in the other. He shook out another folding chair and sat beside Simon, and Tiny brought two plates of assorted cake slices, carrying them from the kitchen with exaggerated care. She stood at her uncle’s shoulder, watching Simon as if she thought he might suddenly go manic.
He sipped the tea; took a bite of carrot cake. It was great. Tried not to listen to the swirl of weirdness in his head.
“So, you’re Mr Simon Machin, as per the legal papers,” the guy said.
“And you’re Mr T C Corrigan. What’s the C for?”
“Charles. But Dad says it’s for Clever. Trevor Clever. Everyone calls me Trev.” Trev grinned. “Dad’s a bit of a joker.”
“Grandpa calls me Tiny,” Tiny said, apparently finding that a bit of a mystery. “My real name’s Timora, actually.”
Simon glanced at Trev who raised his eyebrows, still grinning. “Tiny Tim. Yes, you got it.”
Tiny still looked baffled as she carefully and kindly directed Simon to another slice of cake, but Simon felt a glimmer of pleasure at the shared joke. Trev was, somehow, very easy company.
“So, what are your plans for the place?” He could do this. Of course he could. He was an adult. “I imagine you’re into all the good stuff. The artisan, gluten-free, wholemeal flour thing. You look like you take care of yourself.” And wasn’t that the clumsiest chat-up line he’d ever thought of? Without meaning to chat up. Or whatever. Was that a twinkle of amusement he saw in Trev’s eyes?
“Cupcakes,” Trev said.
“What?”
“I specialise in cupcakes. Lots of frosting, lots of sprinkles, massive calorie overload. Even the occasional rose decoration. I make them myself.”
“Uncle Trev made my birthday cake,” Tiny said.
I make them myself. Simon was still reeling at the thought of those large, comforting hands moulding icing into delicate, pretty shapes.
“Uncle Trev?” She blinked at Trev with that innocent puppy expression that Simon was learning, only too well, meant evil intention on a global scale when wielded by a person of child stature. “Mummy’s picking me up in ten minutes.” It must have been some kind of code, because Trev grinned at her and fetched a small cake box from the counter. “Here you are, darling. Only the ones we made together today because I’m not open for business yet, and I’ve been pretty busy with cleaning.”
“Oh. I meant, only if you can spare them,” she said with stilted politeness, so obviously desperate to grab the box.
Trev handed it over solemnly. “Share with your mum and little brother, right?”
A knock came at the door and Tiny dashed over to open it. There were a few words and a laugh between her mum and Trev, but only Trev came back to the table.
“She’s cute,” Simon said. Actually, he meant it. He thought he could probably stand a conversation with Tiny and her pseudo-adult care for him. “Were there cupcakes in the box?”
“Yeah. I offered to mind her for a couple of hours this morning but there’s not much for her to do here apart from make cakes. She loves the strawberry ones. When I open the bakery, I’ll sort a regular order for family.”
Simon frowned. “You’ll never make profits that way.”
“But that’s how it’ll be. That’s how I work.”
Simon caught Trev’s steady gaze. “Okay.” He glanced at his mug which, surprisingly, was now empty. “I should go.”
“You should stay for another cup,” Trev said. There was an edge to his voice, though not an angry one any longer. “It’s good for you. You’re very tense.”
“Me?” Simon bristled. “Yeah. Comes with the territory. You know, being dumped, a victim of fraud, unemployment, homelessness, and… Jesus. Sorry again. You don’t want all the sordid background.”
Trev took a long draft of his own tea, then poured out refills. “Okay, I get it. I’m not saying you haven’t suffered. It’s pretty obvious you’re in a bad place at the moment. And it’s easy for me to say it’s how you deal with it that matters.”
“But you’re right.” The hot tea soothed Simon’s senses like nothing else ever did. “Brett was a shit for a much longer time than it took to empty out our bank account. My family tried to tell me so, but I wouldn’t hear it. And I was never much good at the finance side of things, so I’d more or less abdicated responsibility.”
Trev shook his head. “I’m not saying you deserved it.”
“No. Thanks.”
“We creatives, right?” Trev reached for his own slice of cake and his fingers brushed over Simon’s hand. “We need someone to handle the figures while we….”
“Handle the sugarcraft?”
Trev laughed. He moved his hand away more slowly than Simon expected, but more quickly than he liked. “So, what’s this?” He nodded at the item Simon had put on the table.
“It’s… God knows. My nephews thought it was a rabbit. A chocolate one. We found it on the ground outside.” The foil wrapper wasn’t holding in the pieces any longer. Something that may have been a rabbit’s foot was exposed, like Simon kept a foot out from under the duvet at night to keep cool on the uncomfy sofa.
“Did you bake it?”
“No. Chocolate’s a specialist thing. Like the cook obviously had trouble with this one.”
“Oh yeah?” Trev unwrapped the foil and snapped off a piece. “Have some.”
“You think it’s okay to eat?”
“It was tightly wrapped. I’m just… relaxing it.”
The flush that crept from Simon’s toes to his belly was astonishing. He leaned forward, and before he could take the chocolate, Trev also leaned over and slid it into Simon’s mouth.
“It’s delicious.” Simon felt as if he were being bathed from inside with the very softest, warmest water.
Trev nodded, also munching a piece. “Bloody gorgeous,” he said and licked his lips with gusto.
Simon felt dizzy in a whole different part of his body. “That’s a professional critique?”
Trev smiled. “I’m not a chocolatier either. Though I can tell, even if it’s odd shaped, the recipe is true. There’s nothing like chocolate for personal gratification.” He paused, as if wondering whether to say what else was on his mind. “Talking of which… there’s other stuff in your boxes. I had to move them below the new equipment in the larder. In case Tiny went looking, you know? She’s very curious at this age.”
“You…? Other…?” Oh fuck. Fuck. Simon’s flush crept right on up to his cheeks. Brett had been an avid collector of adult… “Toys. You mean toys?”
Trev was smiling, but with half his mouth as if he wasn’t entirely sure whet
her Simon would share the joke. “I don’t mind, Simon. Got some myself, to be honest.”
“You do? You’re…?” Jesus, he couldn’t even phrase a full sentence.
“If this were a different time and place, and some guy looking like you brought me chocolate like that rabbit,” Trev said slowly and carefully, but with that twinkle back in his eye, “I’d ask him out to the bar tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Or the first night he had free.”
Like Simon had anything on his social calendar at the moment. There was no need to play coy. He was startled to find he was grinning widely. “A different time and place, you say. I mean, would you consider it anyway?”
Trev reached again for Simon’s hand and this time he held on. “Mr Simon Machin, would you like to go out for a drink tonight? If it makes you feel uncomfortable to hang around here, we could go to somewhere in town.”
“No, it’s fine. The bar along the parade is fun, and not very busy early evening, so you can hear yourself talk. And no. I don’t feel uncomfortable.” What an astonishing thing, but it was true. Somehow Trev had filled the bakery with his own charisma, filling the ugly space of failure, overlaying the memory of Simon’s misery with something new, warm, and positive.
For the first time, Trev looked awkward, though he was still twinkling. “Good. I’m glad you don’t feel uncomfortable hanging out here, because I’d like you to join me next month on opening day. I need help in the kitchen.”
“Help?” The sudden switch of topic hit Simon in the gut. He snatched away his hand. So, apparently, he still didn’t understand blokes. He hadn’t thought Trev was that kind of guy. That kind of cruel guy, playing on Simon’s goodwill, taking advantage of him as cheap labour—
“An official job offer, Simon,” Trev broke in. Had Simon’s anger and shame shown so obviously? “I’m offering you a paid job. I need a man who understands baking. And knows this place. At no stage has anyone said the business failed because there’s no market, or because the previous baker turned out poor product. In fact, while I’ve been pottering about in here, a few of the neighbours have made sure to let me know they were sorry to see you go.”